


Home After Dusk

by Sobriquett



Category: North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: F/M, Kissing, North and South Train Scene Feelings, Poor Life Choices, Post-Canon, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:28:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27201812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sobriquett/pseuds/Sobriquett
Summary: Margaret and John enjoy one night of peace before they face the consequences of their actions.
Relationships: Margaret Hale/John Thornton
Comments: 20
Kudos: 85
Collections: New Year's Resolutions 2020





	Home After Dusk

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vix_spes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vix_spes/gifts).



The train rattled on.

Margaret smiled out into the growing darkness, twirling the precious Helstone rose between her fingers. Mr Thornton – John, he had said to call him – had her other hand clasped warmly between his. They had been quiet for some time. The tumult of their fortuitous meeting and the relief of their differences finally resolved had faded into a quiet contentment. Margaret was happy, at peace in the world for the first time in many months.

These fields were not so different from those she had known as a girl, their vibrant green fading in the gathering dusk. She felt pleased, relieved, her soul in perfect tranquillity, as if she were truly returning home after a very long journey.

John squeezed her hand. “Margaret?”

She hummed, watching a flock of birds suddenly take flight against a magnificent yellow sky, launching themselves from a thick wood in the distance. “Yes?”

“Perhaps you should return to London.”

Margaret froze, her heart feeling as though it would follow the distant birds in their skyward leap. She turned to face him, lips parting to speak but no words followed. She couldn’t hear her own thoughts over the sounds of her ears ringing. She didn’t understand. She searched his eyes for his meaning, for some hope in the shape of his brow. Somewhere amongst his kisses, he had asked her to be his wife and she answered with another kiss, but surely he did not mean to—

“No, no, love, I spoke too hastily.” One hand caressed her face, thumb swiping over her cheek. “I was merely thinking of what comes next.”

Margaret rediscovered her voice, but it was little more than a croak. “What do you mean?”

“We will be in Milton soon, in perhaps an hour and a half. It will be very late.” His thumb brushed her cheek again and his smile was gentle and patient, as though he understood something that she did not. This needled her, poked at the embers of her dormant inner fire. She felt it stir. “Where will you go?”

She pulled away from his touch, extracting her hand and moving along the bench until her back was against the curtain, a wide gulf of six inches between them. She busied her hands with the rose to keep them from shaking as the events of the day washed over her.

They had kissed – and it was so much more than kissing, but she didn’t know the word for such behaviour - on a public train platform, in front of Henry Lennox, and before dozens of others. And then she had stepped into a train carriage with Mr. Thornton with nothing but a carpetbag – not even her hat or gloves – and continued. They were not married yet, and even if they had been, such behaviour was unthinkable. A furious blush scorched her cheeks and tears prickled behind her eyes. She looked away at the opposite bench, blinking to clear the tears. What on earth had she been thinking this afternoon?

She fought to hold her hands and voice steady, but they were trembling with anger and embarrassment, not sadness and fear.

“I will find a hotel, I suppose.” She ran a finger over the silky petals of her flower, watching them retreat and shrink back under too much pressure. “In the morning, I will send for Dixon.”

“No, you cannot stay in a hotel by yourself.”

She met his eye again with determination. She had asked to take charge of her life now that she could, and she meant to, even if she had made a poor start in the world’s eyes. “I can. I stayed in a hotel last night, with Mr. Lennox.”

“It’s not safe by yourself, and people will talk. And what if Dixon does not come?”

She twirled the rose again. “What do you suggest?”

She looked up for his answer and watched as he opened his mouth to speak. He too had no ready answer; he looked aggrieved and perturbed and very severe in the growing darkness.

“Do you have any friends you could appeal to?” he asked.

“The Higginses,” Margaret suggested, exploring the absurdity of the situation. “But Nicholas and Mary must already be four to a bed with the Boucher children. I could not impose on them like that under any circumstances. And I made few other friends in Milton.” She paused. “What about Fanny? She was so keen for me to see her Indian wallpaper.”

John’s brow became sterner still at that. She had not known the lines could be etched deeper until she mentioned his sister. “No.”

Margaret chose not to probe further; she could imagine so many reasons for his refusal. Truthfully, she would be relieved not to arrive on Mrs Watson’s doorstep late at night and be thrust upon Fanny’s mercy and hospitality.

“Then my only other friend is you.”

“Is that the only way?”

“I think so. Your mother has closed the house; there will be no servants to see. I will have to make my own bed, if we can find the linens, but that is a small price to pay.”

“We cannot avoid detection,” John warned. “Even by stepping onto the platform, we must be seen by someone – the porter, the conductor, another passenger. It will be impossible to contain, the tale of the heiress Miss Hale going home with the destitute Mr Thornton.”

“That may be true. But so would the story of Miss Hale and Mr Thornton at the hotel, or even just Miss Hale walking out with Mr Thornton after dark. And it will be lovely to go home with you, if only for one night.”

“Home?”

“Well, for the moment it is my house but your home, but in a few weeks that home shall be _ours_ in every way.”

“Ours,” he echoed. He kissed her again, a sweet and fleeting brush of his lips against hers.

“People will talk no matter what, do you agree?” said Margaret.

“Yes.”

Margaret smiled at him. “So with no option that will satisfy all, we must satisfy ourselves. I will come home with you.”

* * *

The platform had been quiet but not deserted. Margaret had taken Mr Thornton’s arm as she had taken Henry’s that morning, and they had greeted any acquaintance they had passed. There were not many pedestrians at the late hour but there were some, and so Margaret and John behaved as though they had nothing to conceal. They crossed Milton on foot. It was only half a mile to Marlborough Mills along well-lit streets.

The house had been fully dark when they arrived. All the shutters were closed or curtains drawn. There wasn’t even the hint of a candle flickering on the upper doors. Mr Thornton led Margaret through the front gate and bolted it behind them. In the privacy of the deserted yard, he took her hand. They went around the house to the back door, then down a short hallway and into the big house’s kitchen.

The fire had dimmed to embers but Margaret could feel the heat emanating from the range. The room smelled of whatever savoury delight had been Mrs Thornton’s dinner. Margaret’s stomach rumbled audibly as John lit an oil lamp on a high shelf. He looked over at her when he caught the sound. He didn’t smile but there was a touch of humour in his eyes that she had rarely seen. He removed his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair. He guided Margaret to a sturdy wooden chair next to the fire, crouching to feed kindling to the fire. When he had coaxed it back to life and the kindling caught, he stood.

“Supper, and then we shall find you some linens. Can I do anything else?”

Margaret smiled up at him and reached for his hand. He squeezed it. “No, thank you. But I am ravenous.”

Margaret fed a log and a few lumps of coal to the fire then sat, poker in hand, and watched as John moved around the kitchen. He hesitated from time to time as he searched for something – a kettle, a cloth, a knife – but he was otherwise oddly at ease.

It took a long moment of watching him to connect this man of business with the boy who had been torn from his education and plunged into poverty with nothing but an industrious mother and a much younger sister. It was evidently not the first time he had prepared supper or boiled a kettle for tea.

Margaret had baked, pickled, preserved, peeled and chopped herself, but she did not share John’s seeming comfort in the kitchen. At Helstone, the Hales had had three servants including a cook, but in Milton there was only Dixon. Margaret had learned what she could at her side but Dixon had had neither the talent nor the patience to be an adequate teacher. Margaret found herself keeping to the simplest of tasks. Since she had returned to London, she had not spent more than a few minutes at a time in the kitchen.

Her heart swelled with affection as John pulled out a chair at the kitchen table for her to sit before their odd feast: half a loaf of bread, some jam, a piece of cheese, a few slices of ham, half a pie, half a fruitcake, two pears, and a steaming pot of fragrant tea.

She poured two cups, breathing in the familiar scent. They ate in silence. There was no noise but the flickering fire and the sound of crockery and cutlery. Margaret wished she could characterise the silence as peaceful or familiar but it was not. She was so aware of him, even as she kept her eyes cast down, careful to avoid the brushing of her sleeve against his arm or her skirts against his legs. Her chest felt tight, her heart beating against her ribs, her breath short, her senses heightened in the cosy dark of the kitchen. In the dark and quiet, it was almost as if there was nobody in the world but the two of them – nobody in the world knew for certain where they were – and he was so _close_.

Despite her earlier appetite, she ate little and said nothing.

At length, they finished. Margaret wanted to eat one of the pears but her nerves made her queasy. As John cleared the table again, returning the leftovers to the larder and leaving the dishes beside the sink, Margaret cradled her teacup with both hands and sipped slowly. She sipped a second cup as he left the room with the lamp.

It was at least a quarter of an hour before he returned. He had removed his necktie and the neck of his shirt was open. It was only the second time she had seen him in such dishabille – after this afternoon – and she couldn’t pull her eyes away from his throat, naked and vulnerable in a way she could not have imagined before today.

John came around the table and wrapped a fine, thick shawl around her shoulders against the chill. He stood with his back to the fire and he was engulfed in shadow. Her eyes followed him, hands clutching the shawl tight, straining to read his expression.

“Margaret, love, I must make a confession.”

Margaret swallowed. She waited.

“I can’t… there isn’t– that is, I don’t have a bed for you.”

She drummed her fingers over the china tea cup once, twice. “I don’t understand.”

“Mother has packed the linens. I can’t find them.”

She set the cup down. “What about the servants’ rooms? Is there a room up there?”

“The attics creak terribly, I didn’t look. But we dismissed most of the servants last week. The rooms will have been cleared by now. You must take my room.”

“And what about you?”

“I will manage. But you must get some rest. We have a few trying weeks ahead of us and you have been travelling all day.” He reached out a hand.

“So have you,” Margaret said.

“I will manage. Come, love.”

Margaret stood and took the offered hand. She followed John through the silent house, up two flights of the back stairs and onto a long landing. They crept past several doors, all closed, until they reached the final door on the right. Margaret wondered which of these doors belonged to Mrs Thornton, and what she might do if she came upon them. Truthfully, Margaret was very surprised that she had not waited up for her son’s return.

John opened the bedroom door so gingerly – Margaret was almost in pain when it gave the tiniest creak – and he ushered her in but stayed on the other side of the threshold.

“I will take a blanket to my study,” he whispered. “Do you need anything else, my dear Margaret?"

Margaret looked around the room. It was comfortably but not richly furnished, with a thick rug beside the bed, thick curtains over the window, and a desk against the far wall. She spotted her father’s Plato under his discarded neckcloth and tears came to her eyes. She turned back, took his hands, and pulled him into the room.

She shut the door.

“We are engaged and it is cold. Stay with me until the morning.”

“Margaret, we shouldn’t.”

“I know, but we should not have done so many things, and God willing you will be my husband inside a month. Nobody needs to know. Come to bed, John.”

He agreed with a sigh and a kiss.

Margaret smiled. With his back turned for her modesty, Margaret undressed to her chemise and drawers and unpinned her hair. She wrapped the shawl around her shoulders and slipped under the covers. She inhaled deeply; the bed smelled of John, and the scent brought back burning memories of the afternoon.

While she was changing, John had locked his bedroom door and waited. Now Margaret was safely encased in layers of blankets, he extinguished the lamp and set it down on his dresser.

Margaret felt the mattress give as John lay down beside her, fully dressed on top of the covers. He pulled a blanket from the end over himself. His hand was cold as he took hers and kissed her again briefly, wrapping an arm under her shoulders to clutch her to him. He pressed another kiss to her loose hair as she rested her cheek on his shoulder. “Are you warm, love?”

Margaret kissed him once more in answer, longer and deeper. She ran a hand through his hair as he caressed her cheek. She was warmed through to the bones. She let out an unladylike sound as he nipped at her lip and she finally pulled away, panting.

“Very warm. Are you, John?”

“I feel I will never be cold again, when you say my name like that.”

Margaret rested her head on his shoulder and pressed a kiss against his bare neck. “Goodnight, John.”

“Goodnight, Margaret.”

She fell asleep holding his hand and dreamed of their future.

**Author's Note:**

> The train scene is a magnificent piece of television, but I have so many questions. And feelings. As does the recipient. This is just one more insufficient imagining. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> Thanks to Kyrene3 for her handholding as I wrote my first fic in three years.


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